


The Detective Under the Mountain

by SkyEverett



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Inception, Dragon Sherlock, Drugged John, Drugged Sherlock, Erebor, Esgaroth, F/M, Hallucinations, Hallucinogens, Hobbit John, Laketown, Moriarty is Alive, Richard Brook is Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Smauglock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-03-15 00:53:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3432038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyEverett/pseuds/SkyEverett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes has returned from the dead, John and Mary are married, and so far, everything is as it should be.  But there is a certain consulting criminal that watches from the shadows.  He's still alive, and he's bored and tired of staying out of his polar opposite's way. And when that consulting criminal receives two vials of an incredibly powerful hallucinogenic, chaos ensues.  There's no doubt about it: Sherlock and John are in trouble and the only way to escape...might end in death for both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Invitation to Chaos

   Moriarty was also the type to get bored.

   He had a network of criminals, but none of them had come to him with a good job, now that they were all in hiding.

   The idea of faking suicide just to see the look on Sherly’s face was intriguing at the time.

   Now playing dead was B-O-R-I-N-G.

   But there was always that knock on the door, that persuading voice, that promise of a good time that had Moriarty answering the bloody door anyway.

   This was one such time, and the criminal was hooded from the oncoming rain.  The man strode in without an invitation.  Moriarty raised his eyebrows in surprise.  “That was rude,” he said.  “If you have a job for me you really should treat me with respect.”

   “I heard you’re a lover of fairy-tales, Richard Brook.”  The man’s voice was husky, like a bear’s, and had a rough accent.

   Moriarty gave a start, although he tried not to let it show.  Nobody really called him that anymore, not since he had changed his title to fit Sherlock’s.  He shrugged in response.  “A few,” he answered.  “What do fairy-tales have to do with your offer, exactly?  I’m intrigued now,” he added playfully.  It was the truth, after all.

   “I have a drug with me that puts victims into a coma depending on how much you give them,” began the man.  “When in this coma, the drug will give them realistic hallucinations.”

   Moriarty allowed himself to laugh a bit.  “And you would just give me this drug?  That’s too easy.”

   “Only if it means seeing you have a bit of fun with Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.”

   At this the consulting criminal raised his eyebrows in utter delight.  “You want me to do this for Sherlock and John?  I can’t even get close to them.”

   “It will be well worth the risk.”  The man held up two vials of clear liquid and handed them over.  “Don’t waste it.”  Then the man strode back out into the rain without so much as a nod, leaving Moriarty to wonder at what fantasies were in the vials.

   But Moriarty had absolutely no doubt in his mind about taking the job.

   It would be risky, and people could see him by accident.  _Well, he did love a good show._

   Getting close to Sherlock would require massive amounts of cooperation and bribing his network of criminals.  _Then again, they would do anything if they were promised a bit of fun afterwards._

   Injecting the drug would be impossible.  _Sherlock besting death was also impossible._

   “But I wonder what kinds of dreams they’ll have?”  _Only one way to find out._

   He checked the two vials.  One was labeled with a W, the other an H.  He assumed they stood for ‘Watson’ and ‘Holmes.’  He unscrewed the vial labeled H and gave it a hesitant sniff.

   Immediately the sitting room fell away from him and he was surrounded by an insurmountable pile of treasure.  Gold, jewels, silver, anything fortune-worthy, it was here.  He took a deep breath and found smoke rising from his mouth…

   …then he put a stopper on the vial and reality swam before him again.

   “Incredibly powerful hallucinogenic…” he murmured.  But understanding soon came to him, and corners of his mouth turned up in a huge grin.  “How interesting to have Sherlock don the guise of a classic fairy-tale villain!”  

   Quickly, he sent a text to two of his best associates.  _Come to the third hideout immediately.  I have an assignment for you.  –JM_

   Moriarty held up the two vials, both completely identical, save for the labels on each one.  Quickly, he put them on a folding table and wrote a letter of instruction to his two associates when they arrived.  He had never shown his face to them; he wasn’t going to start now.

   But now he wasn’t bored anymore.  Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were in for the ride of their lives.


	2. When Evil Strikes

   “John, I’m getting restless.”

   John sighed as he opened his laptop.  Anything to stop Sherlock’s pacing around.  “All right, well…” 

   _Bzz._

   John pulled out his phone.  _I have an assignment for you.  –MH_

   “Hey, Mycroft has something for us,” exclaimed John.  “Maybe that could distract you for a while.”

   “No,” answered Sherlock, not even breaking his stride.

   “No time for sibling rivalry, Sherlock,” said John.  “At least do it to stretch your legs.  Mycroft always sees an opportunity to get you off your feet.”  After he had finished, John glanced around the room for a camera.  That text had come at exactly the right moment.

   “If Mycroft isn’t too busy, why doesn’t he do it himself?” asked Sherlock.

   “Mycroft’s in politics, not in field work,” answered John.  “He’s probably got other things on his mind.”

   Suddenly Mrs. Hudson appeared at the door.  “Sherlock, I’ve hired someone to fix the lights in my room, they burned out last night.  I hope the noise doesn’t bother your work.”

   Before Sherlock could make a retort about how terrible that was, John said “It’s no trouble at all, Mrs. Hudson.  D’you think you could make us something?”

   “Oh, of course, dear,” she answered.  “Coffee or tea?”

   “Coffee, please.  No sugar.  And…” John looked over at his friend, who had finally ceased his pacing and had sat down in his armchair, looking twitchier by the minute.  “Tea for Sherlock.  He’ll need something to calm him down.”  After a sympathetic smile towards the consulting detective, Mrs. Hudson nodded and left.

   “I don’t want _tea,_ John.  I want a case.”

   “Oh, shut up and take it,” said John.  “It’s better than nothing.  But you should consider Mycroft’s offer.”

   Sherlock looked up at the ceiling.  “You can go down to Mycroft’s club and get the files on it, John,” he answered.  “Then I’ll think about it.”

   John sighed in annoyance.  “Would it hurt for you to just go and get them yourself?”

   Sherlock didn’t answer.  Even though his hands weren’t in the steeple position or on his temples, it looked like the consulting detective had once again retreated into his mind palace, probably looking for something to do, something to keep him from getting bored.  John just sat back in his armchair and breathed out an angry breath through his nose.  “I can’t believe I left Mary at home for this.”  He had promised that he’d spend every Tuesday with Sherlock to keep him from getting too bored (and to keep his blog up), and he never thought he’d say this, but on this particular Tuesday, being with Sherlock was just…boring.

   “I don’t think this is the time for sibling rivalry,” he finally said.  “It’s either boredom or visiting Mycroft.”

   “I despise both.”

   “Here you are, John!” Mrs. Hudson reappeared at the door with cups of coffee and tea, respectively, and a heaping plate of biscuits.  “The man downstairs was so kind when he offered to help me make this for you boys,” she said sweetly.  “I told him I didn’t need any help, but he insisted!  I’ve never met such a kind gentleman…”

   Before Mrs. Hudson could ramble on, John thanked her, took the plate, and set it on the table by Sherlock’s armchair.  He took his coffee and took a sip.  It was black, just the way he liked it.  Sherlock didn’t move.

   “Come on, Sherlock,” he retorted, a bit exasperated by now.  “She made it.”

   “No, the man helping with the lights made it,” he replied, but took it anyway.  “He helped her with the lights but still had time to help her make us drinks, meaning the light problem was bad, but not really bad, either that or the man is just really good with his work.”  He took a sip.  “Mrs. Hudson said he was a gentleman so that probably means—”

   “ _Really,”_ John interrupted.  “There’s nothing suspicious about that fellow; he’s just a really nice man who happened to help Mrs. Hudson make tea and biscuits.  Nothing wrong with that, Sher…lock…”  Suddenly the room swayed dangerously before his eyes.  He tried to get to his feet, but he lost his balance and fell to the ground, completely missing his armchair.

   “John!” came Sherlock’s voice, full of alarm. 

   “I’m f—ine, just lemme…” John could see Sherlock trying to get to his feet at the end of a tunnel, but his legs didn’t seem to work either.  His friend tried to yell for help, but his voice sounded wrong—all John could hear was incoherent jibberish, like the speech pattern of a drunkard.  “Oh, shhhh…”  John was suddenly laying on his side now.  Pieces of furniture were melding together to create various shapes that were darkening in color rapidly…

   John’s eyes rolled back in his head and darkness swallowed him whole.

* * *

   Mrs. Hudson walked back downstairs to find the man who had helped her, but he had walked out after she had gone upstairs with the treats.  But the lights worked splendidly in her room now, so she shrugged off the man’s disappearance.  Hopefully Sherlock and John were upstairs talking about new cases or whatever her boys talked about these days…

   She often wondered how Mary was doing.  Was John a good husband?  Did he treat her well?  John was a good flat-mate to Sherlock, and he had come in right when Sherlock needed a colleague…in fact, she did have something she wanted to ask Mary.  She’d tell John to ask her—she didn’t own a cell phone.

   She climbed the steps to the flat above her.  “John?” she called before walking in.  “Do you think you could ask Mary something for me…?” she trailed off as a horrific sight greeted her.  John was lying on his side on the floor and Sherlock was in his armchair, both completely unconscious.  The tea and coffee had been spilled on the floor and the biscuits hardly touched.  Mrs. Hudson screamed, ran across the room to fetch a telephone, and dialed 999 as fast as she could.  “H-hello?” she asked.  “This is Martha Louis Hudson, I’m the landlady for flats 221B and 221C on Baker Street, London…the ones in flat 221B are unconscious—I think they might have been drugged!  Please hurry!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh, here's a nice cliffhanger! There are plenty of those in Sherlock and one big one in DoS, so I think I'm following the right script in leaving it like this for now. Next up...enter Thorin and company. Wonder how this will turn out?


	3. The Dwarves of Erebor

_“Master Burglar, are you all right?”_

_“Did he fall?”_

_“Can’t have, hobbits aren’t clumsy creatures.  Probably just fell asleep.  Can’t blame him.”_

_“Bilbo?  Bilbo, wake up!”_

   “Ah…what?”  John squinted at the sunlight in his face.  Where the hell was he?  Who were these people standing above him?  John blinked again, and the faces of four hairy, bearded men came into view.  “Where am I?”

 

   “Probably hit his head,” said the white-bearded one.  To John, he said “You’re at the foot of the Lonely Mountain, Bilbo.”

 

   “‘Bilbo’?” John repeated, bewildered.  “Who’s that?”

 

   A brown-haired man—the only one without a beard—looked at the white-bearded one in worry.  “How hard did he hit his head, Balin?  He doesn’t remember who he is!”

 

   “Me?” asked John.  “No, there must be some mistake—have any of you seen my friend?  He’s a bit tall, with black hair and blue eyes—!”

 

   “Thorin?” said the red-bearded one.  “He’s looking for the entrance with the others, Master Baggins.” 

 

   John had never heard anyone call him “Bilbo” or “Master Baggins” in his entire life.  And who _were_ these men?  He’d never seen any of them before either.  What was going on?  Where was Sherlock?  Or was he this “Thorin” fellow they were referring to?

 

   “The entrance to where, exactly?” asked John.

 

   The gray-bearded bald man, who had not yet spoken, raised his bushy eyebrows in concern.  “You sure you’re alright, Master Baggins?”

 

   “Yes, alright, alright!” John finally snapped, getting to his feet.  “I’m fine, I’m completely and utterly fine.”  The best thing to do from this moment onward would be playing along.  He never did theatre in school, but he decided that a bit of acting would help him figure out where he was and why he was there.  “I really must have…hit my head hard,” he began.  “So could you tell me who you people are again?”

 

   The men all looked at each other, but they seemed less suspicious and worried than before.  “I’m Balin,” said the white-bearded dwarf, “and they’re Ori, Gloin, and Dwalin.”  He pointed to the brown-haired man, the red-bearded one, and the gray-bearded one in turn.

 

   “Do you remember now, Bilbo?” asked Ori.

 

   John nodded.  “Yes, of course I do.  I didn’t mean to worry you.”

 

   Balin nodded in relief.  “No harm done, Master Baggins.  Now,” he added, clapping John on the shoulder, “it’s time you started looking as well.”

 

   “For what?” asked John.

 

   “For an entrance to the mountain,” answered Dwalin.

 

   “Oh…yes, of course,” answered John.  They all smiled at him, hefted what looked like spears, and left him alone.

 

   “Bloody hell,” muttered John.  “I’ve got to find Sherlock…”  But as soon as he took his first step forward, he realized his stride had gotten significantly smaller.  “What…?”  He looked down at his feet, only to widen his eyes in horror.  His feet were incredibly big and covered in what looked like thick hair.  “The hell?” he muttered, and looked down at the rest of himself.  He was wearing a thick blue robe lined with some sort of fur, and under that a white shirt, green vest, and brown trousers that ended mid-calf.  A sword hung in a sheath at his hip.  He ran a hand through his hair in disbelief, only to find that his hair was thick, curly, and wild, and his ears were somewhat pointy.  _This is impossible,_ thought John with growing panic.  _I’m not myself.  I’m stuck in the body of some sort of dwarf…with incredibly large, hairy feet.  Supposed to be looking for the entrance to a mountain…could be a fortress of some kind._ John took a deep breath. _I decided to play along…so I’m going to do just that._

   “Anything?!” yelled a deep voice from far off.

 

   “Nothing!” answered Dwalin’s voice.

 

   John wandered around a bit, following the other deep voice he heard.  He glimpsed a few other men looking around, but one tall, muscular man with long black hair—and a black beard—and blue eyes seemed to be the leader.  He kept looking around restlessly and glancing at the sky.  “If the map is true,” he growled, “then the door is directly above us!”

 

   John looked up at a statue of what looked to be a great medieval king carved into the stone.  The throne of the statue seemed to have step-patterns carved into it, almost as if…“Up here!” he yelled, pointing at what was indeed a path up the mountain.  He couldn’t blame the other men for not noticing, it just looked like part of the statue if one wasn’t looking at it right. 

 

   The black-haired man ran up beside John and grinned.  “You have keen eyes, Master Baggins.”  John half-smiled despite himself; it was nice to know that he had helped these people in some way even though he didn’t know them.

 

   The trek up the mountain was tiring, but it gave John some time to think.  He gradually learned the names of the men he was travelling with by listening to their conversations.  Their names were Ori, Dwalin, Gloin, Balin, Thorin, Bombur, Nori, Dori, and Bifur, and they called themselves “dwarves.”  Whatever was in this mountain used to be their home.  _They must have embarked on this journey to reclaim it,_ thought John, feeling some admiration for them.

 

   From the way the others treated him, they had been companions for some time and he had won their trust many times over.  So whatever John decided to do, he had faith that these men would trust him completely in his decision.  But what was he—rather, the body he was inhabiting—doing here? They needed him for something, he just didn’t know what.  _God, it would help if I had a little background information,_ John thought angrily to himself.

 

   When he and the others finally stopped climbing, the sun was setting, and they were standing on a small platform that overlooked a beautiful landscape.  John had seen pictures of New Zealand that resembled this landscape…he smiled a bit.  He never had time—what with work and a child on the way—to see sights like these.

 

   “No time for sunbathing, Bilbo,” called Balin, and John obediently ran over to where the others were standing.  The black-haired man—Thorin—took a big, metal key out from in his pocket. 

 

   “This must be it,” Thorin muttered.  “The hidden door.”  He held the key up for the others to see.  “And all those who doubted us…rue this day!”  The others cheered and waved their weapons around, and John grinned.  This sounded like a quest that these men had risked their lives for. 

 

   Dwalin ran his hands over the rock.  “We have a key, which means somewhere…there is a keyhole.”

 

   Thorin looked over at the setting sun.  “The last light of Durin’s Day will shine upon the keyhole,” he recited.  John and the others looked over at the rock, expecting something to happen, but after a few minutes, nothing did.  The sun began to sink under the mountains.  “Nori,” Thorin muttered, and said dwarf kneeled down under Dwalin—who was still feeling the rock for a keyhole—and began to knock on the rock with a spoon (probably to listen for echoes). 

 

   “Stop it,” yelled Nori.  “I can’t hear with your thumping!”  His voice grew more panicked as the sky got darker and darker.

 

   Dwalin cursed and banged on the rock.  “It’s not here!  It’s not here!”

 

   “Break it down!” Thorin yelled, and the dwarves turned their weapons on the rock and attacked it.  Sparks flew and John winced as the others’ voices grew louder and louder with fear.

 

   “It’s no good!” Balin finally exclaimed.  “The door’s sealed; it can’t be opened by force.  Powerful magic on it.”  The dwarves through down their weapons in defeat and frustration as the sun finally hid itself among the other mountains. 

 

   John felt a stone settle in his heart.  How far had these people walked only to discover that they would never be able to get inside?  He had fought in battles in Afghanistan with soldiers he would call comrades; he felt this same bond between the dwarves as well.

 

   “No!” yelled Thorin, and ran up to the rock wall, pulling out what looked like a map as he did.  He opened it up and read “The last light of Durin’s Day…will shine upon the keyhole.”  He looked up in despair at his comrades and held out the map.  “That’s what it says!”  He looked each one of them in the eye with such an anguished face that John felt a gloom settle around him and the others.  They were losing hope, and fast. 

 

   “What did we miss?” asked Thorin, turning to Balin.  “Balin…what did we miss?”

 

   Balin shook his head sorrowfully.  “We’ve lost the light,” he whispered.  “There’s no more to be done.  We had but one chance.”  He began to walk back the way he came, and the others started to follow suit.  “It’s over.”

 

   “Wait…” muttered John, looking around.  “Where are they going?”  Thorin just looked at him hopelessly.  “You can’t give up now!” John yelled.  Ignoring him, Thorin dropped the key on the ground and shoved the map into John’s hands.  “You all just got here and you’re giving up?” John asked in disbelief.  Again, Thorin ignored him.  Within seconds, the dwarves were travelling down the mountain.

 

   John opened the map, but found that there were runes on it that he couldn’t understand, so he closed it and put it in his pocket, where it bumped against a ring.  John paced around on the rock, trying to make sense of the instructions Thorin had recited.  John needed to do something about this—he didn’t know these people, but he couldn’t stand to see despair like that…it reminded him of what he used to be before Sherlock had put an end to his limp.

 

   “Sherlock…” he murmured.  “I could really use his help now.”

 

   And at that moment, the moon burst through the clouds and shined down on the rock wall.  After a few seconds, John could make out a keyhole carved into the rock.  “The keyhole…Come back!” he yelled.  “It’s the light of the _moon!_   The last _moonlight!_ Oh, where’s the key, where’s the key…!”  John paced around the outcropping.  “It was here…it was _right here—_!”  In his desperation, his one of his oversized feet kicked at something, and John looked up just as the key toppled over the side of the…

 

   A boot stomped down on the string holding the key, effectively cutting off its descent.  Thorin had returned.  Slowly, he bent down, picked the key up, and walked over to where the keyhole was now visible in the mountain just as the other dwarves appeared behind him. 

 

   John breathed a sigh of relief as Thorin slid the key into the keyhole and turned it.  A faint clicking noise was heard as Thorin pushed the hidden door open, revealing a hollow darkness beyond.  “Erebor,” Thorin whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be up soon, hopefully. There will be some Dragon!Sherlock.


	4. The Cavern of Gold

   “I wasn’t expecting this to happen.  It appears I may be losing my edge.”

   Mycroft stood in the center of the flat, clutching a black umbrella so hard that his knuckles were white.  Molly, Mary, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson either sat or stood around him as men dressed in white lifted Sherlock and John onto stretchers and brought them downstairs to where an ambulance was waiting.  Mary and Mrs. Hudson were near tears, while Molly and Lestrade only stood, stonily listening to whatever Mycroft had to say.

   “This much is certain.  Though Moriarty is dead, his network is able to function without him.  My men tracked down the person who applied the drug to Sherlock and Dr. Watson.  He was interrogated and then disposed of—but we could only get this much information: Sherlock and John are under the effects of a drug so powerful that it induces a fairly realistic dream-state.”

   “What are you saying?” asked Lestrade.

   “Right now, Sherlock and Dr. Watson aren’t in London, they’re in another world entirely.  Where, I’m not sure.  But I do know this: the drug makes the dream-state so realistic that they are completely cut off from this world, from London, and from us.”

   His hand gripped the umbrella even tighter at those words, but only Molly noticed.  Though Mycroft’s facial features remained smooth and cold, she could tell that the older Holmes was scared.  Scared of what he didn’t know.

   Mary put her hands over her face and began to shake.  Mrs. Hudson patted her on the back.  Molly only blinked and sat down in Sherlock’s old armchair.  If anything were to happen to Sherlock—anything at all…

   “This conversation never happened,” said Mycroft presently; he turned on his heel and headed towards the door.  “I suspect they would be arriving at the hospital shortly.  Good day to you all.”

* * *

   “Thorin…” breathed Balin.  The old dwarf had no words, but his eyes shone with unshed tears.  Thorin put a hand on Balin’s shoulder to steady him, then walked inside.  After a few moments, the rest of the dwarves followed suit.

   “I know these walls,” Thorin was whispering.  He ran his hands along the rock walls of what looked to John like a very large underground house.  They only seemed to be in a corridor of it, though—the rest was in the direction of the very dim light.  “These halls…this stone…”  Thorin turned to Balin, who was smiling as if he was in a dream.  “You remember it, Balin…chambers filled with golden light.”

   “I remember,” Balin answered. 

   After the last of the dwarves had filed in, Gloin looked up at a carving on the wall above the door.  “Herein lies the seventh kingdom of Durin’s folk,” he read.  “May the heart of the mountain unite all dwarves in deference of this home.”

   John looked up at the carving in wonder.  It was a picture of a chair, and above it, a jewel that shone out from the center of the carving with rays like the sun.

   Balin noticed John staring.  “The throne of the king,” he said. 

   John nodded and pointed at the jewel.  “What’s that above it?” he asked.

   “The Arkenstone,” Balin answered.  “And that, Master Baggins, is why you are here.  You’re going to find it for us.”

   John’s eyebrows went straight up.  He had heard from the others that at the bottom of the mountain there was a gigantic chamber full of any kind of treasure imaginable.  From the way Balin spoke of the Arkenstone, John had a feeling that there was only one of them.  Finding it in a pile of treasure would take a while.  A very long while.

   “You want me to find a jewel?” asked John.

   “A large, white jewel, yes,” replied Balin.

   “That’s it?  I imagine there’s quite a few down there,” said John.

   “There is only one Arkenstone,” said Balin.  “You’ll know it when you see it.”

   “Right,” said John blankly as Balin began to walk away.  Then he stopped and turned to John again.

   “In truth, lad, I do not know what you will find down there,” he muttered.  “You needn’t go if you don’t want to; there’s no dishonor in turning back.”

   “No, Balin,” answered John, “I promised I would help you, and I think I must try.”  It didn’t seem so bad.  Just a few hours in a pile of coins.

   Balin laughed.  “It never ceases to amaze me,” he said, “the courage of hobbits.”

   John drew a blank at that word.  Was it the name of some sort of citizen, or was it a compliment?  Nevertheless, he smiled in thanks.

   “Go now, with as much luck as you can muster,” said Balin.  John nodded and began to walk down the stairs, but Balin called out again.  “Oh, and Bilbo?”

   “Mmn?” replied John.

   “If there is, in fact, a…um…a live dragon down there…”

   John’s eyes widened.  A _dragon?_   He was going to search for a single jewel in a pile of treasure with a _dragon in it?!_

   “…don’t waken it,” Balin finished.

   Numbly, John nodded and headed back down the stairs.  _I’m an idiot, an idiot, a bloody idiot…_   But then the cavern came into view, and John had to stop and stare at the beauty, wonder, and, well, impossible-ness of it all.

* * *

   “Arkenstone…well, how the bloody hell am I supposed to find something like that?”

   The cavern was filled to the brim with gold coins, silver, jewels that were probably worth a massive amount of pounds back at home…and the only piece of advice that that old dwarf could give was that it was “a large, white jewel.”

   “Thanks,” he muttered under his breath as he continued searching.

   But after an hour or two, he couldn’t even find something remotely resembling the Arkenstone.  He was tired of digging through tons of gold, and he was just about to give up, when he picked up a cup and set off a massive avalanche of gold…revealing an enormous closed reptilian eye.

   John gasped and backed away frantically.  They were telling the truth.  There _was_ a dragon in the cavern with him, and he was in a huge amount of trouble.

_What on earth have I gotten myself into?_ John thought.  _I’m going to die if I stay here any longer!_

   But John’s struggles only made more gold fall away, so John stopped, heart pounding, and tried to be as still as he could.

   But it was no use.  Gold pieces clattered into the columns of the interior of the Mountain as the golden-red dragon slowly—sluggishly, because it had been asleep—rose out from underneath the treasure.  John hid behind one of the staircases, hoping against hope that the monster hadn’t seen him run.  He heard the dragon inhale sharply, then…

**“Well?  I know you’re here, and I know you came to steal.  Show yourself, before I decide you’re just as boring as the rest of this place.”**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand that's it for now! Wow, what a cliffhanger! And what will the others back at home do to help Sherlock and John get out of the mess they're in? Stay tuned for more, coming soon!


	5. The Hobbit and the Dragon

   John’s eyebrows shot up.  _The thing can talk?!_   Still he didn’t come out from his hiding place.  There were massive sounds of cascading gold as the dragon moved about, and John’s fear increased in size with each sound.  After a few moments it paused and turned its head right towards John’s column. 

 **“Perhaps it would motivate you to come out if I told you that you can’t hide anything from me?”**  

   If anything, that comment made John want to hide even more.  He shook his head.  _I’ve never met the beast, so how can it know so much about me?_

**“Judging by your heavy breathing, pounding heart, and the way you ran hopelessly behind that column, I’d say you’re very scared right now and feel a desperate need to hide, which is quite useless, I’m afraid; I know where you are.  You also smell of wind, water, earth and many other natural elements, meaning you’ve travelled a long way to get here, and that some other people put you up to it, so you’re very easily influenced, and if others put you up to it, you’re most likely here to steal from me.  Judging by the sound of your clatter—of course magnified by this enormous chamber—you’re a small sort of fellow with feet quite large for your size.  Now, step into the light and tell me if I got anything wrong.”**

   John’s eyes widened.  There was only one person in the world that talked like that…

   John slowly peeked out from behind the column at what appeared very much to be an enormous golden-red dragon.  It was still moving around, but one fiery orange eye remained fixated on the pillar that John was behind.  John could see that its head was at least the size of a bus—if not larger—and huge, bat-like wings were attached to its forelegs.  Every few seconds the dragon paused to take a breath, and John glimpsed sharp teeth lining the edges of its mouth. 

   John’s theory almost fell flat right then and there, but when his eyes fell on a smiley face with x-ed out eyes that seemed to be slashed into the side wall with something that vaguely resembled huge claws, some of his confidence came back.

   “You’re wrong on one thing,” John called out tentatively.  There was still a possibility that he had the wrong idea, but he was willing to take the risk, since the dragon obviously knew his location in the cavern.  “I wasn’t put up to it.  I have my own reasons for being here, Sherlock.”

   There was a pause as the dragon, who had been moving around, stopped and turned its head towards John’s pillar. 

 **“John?”**   The dragon sounded completely astonished.  

   John smiled at the thought that he’d finally manage to surprise the consulting detective before stepping out from behind the pillar.  “Well, you certainly got the better end of this,” he called.

 **“I did _not!”_ ** yelled Sherlock.  **“Honestly!  All I could do was _sit here_ and toss gold around…I’m so _bored_ , and I need a case!”**

   The statement sounded so ridiculous coming out of a dragon’s mouth that John laughed out loud.  Mentally, Sherlock hadn’t changed a bit.

**“Is something funny about this?”**

   Even though his earlier panic had subsided, Sherlock sounded so menacing that John immediately stopped.  “Sorry, I’m shutting up now.  But…now that I’ve found someone else who knows what 221B Baker Street is, how are we supposed to get out of this?”

   Sherlock sighed.  **“I don’t know.”**

   John looked up at him.  “You don’t…know?”  He was hoping that Sherlock would have been able to figure _something_ out.

**“Yes, the one time I can’t make sense of anything; rub it in.  But how can I?  This entire setup is impossible.  Dragons don’t exist and there is no way your height could have decreased by 1.88 feet in such a short amount of time.”**

   “1.88 feet…” mused John.  “Oi, you make it sound like I’m really not all that tall in the first place!”

 **“I can’t deal with you being any shorter than you were, it throws me off,”** continued Sherlock, seemingly unaware than John had even spoke.

   “ _You_ can’t deal with _my_ height?!” yelled John indignantly.  He’d only shrunk by a few feet, whereas Sherlock now towered over him—literally.  “Maybe it wouldn’t bother you so much if you weren’t a 50ft tall bloody dragon!”

**“Much taller than that.”**

   “Back to the point—you have better deduction skills than I do, can’t you just try—!”

 **“This is beyond logical reasoning!”** Sherlock actually looked distressed, something that John had never seen.  Or maybe he just wasn’t seeing it right. 

   “Maybe we’ve been drugged,” offered John, thinking back to the _Baskerville_ case.  This entire place, consisting of dwarves, elves, wizards, dragons, and his being 3½ feet tall could have easily been the result of a highly dangerous—but not fatal—concoction of drugs.  Plus he really wanted Sherlock to stop pacing around and throwing bits of gold in every direction.

**“That’s it.  We’ve been drugged.  No doubt Moriarty’s doing; he has a certain obsession with fairy-tales…”**

_Moriarty is dead, but this could be the doing of one of his network._ “All right, all right, so we know who’s done it,” stated John.  “The big question is how we get out of it.”

 **“Well…”**   Sherlock sat down in a patch of golden coins.  **“There is the obvious way out.”**

   “And what’s that?” asked John, a bit sick of Sherlock thinking that they were always on the same page.

**"It has been theorized that if you die in a dream you just wake up.”**

   “But what if we actually die?”

**“Well, it is a bit risky…”**

   “I’m not doing that, it's too dangerous.”

**“John, you said you were a soldier, and we both know you miss the war days.”**

   “I was a _doctor!”_

**“And a soldier, as you keep telling me.  You’ve had…bad days, I’m presuming this is one of them. Do you have a cigarette?”**

   “What?  No!  I don’t think they exist here!”

**“Either give me a smoke or give me a case!  I can’t _sit_ here and _do nothing_ while you try to think.”**

_"You breathe fire!”_ yelled John.  “I doubt you’ll even need one!”

   That seemed to shut Sherlock up for a few minutes and he settled amongst the various treasures.  John ran his fingers through his hair, trying to ignore his friend’s insults.  “How long have we been out, d’you reckon?”

   The detective-turned-dragon made a movement that John interpreted as a shrug.  It was hard to tell.

   “Well, all right…This is hard.”  John paced to and fro, slipping a few times on the gold coins.  “One of Moriarty’s network drugged us, which means we could be anywhere now.  The hospital, the flat…my house?  No, that’s a big stretch…”

**“BORED.”**

   That one word made John instinctively cover his ears.  “No, Sherlock—!”  But instead of a gun going off, one of the pillars of the structure came crashing to the ground.  John dove to one side and crawled under a staircase, shuddering as the entire mountain shook from the impact.  _God, the one time I wish he had his gun…_

* * *

 

   A slight tremor from within the mountain snapped the dwarves out of their stupor.  Bifur hurried towards the doorway.  “Was that the dragon?” he asked frantically.  “Bilbo could be in trouble!”

   Dwalin nodded.  “He could be in serious danger!  We have to help him.”

   Balin shook his head and laid his withered hand on his kin’s shoulder.  “Not just yet, my friend.  Let’s wait a little while longer.” 

   “But—!”

   “Peace,” ordered Thorin.  “Master Baggins knows the stakes.  If we hear another sound, I will go in alone.”

   “Not for him, you won’t,” replied Balin.  He could see that even though they hadn’t even gone into Erebor, the dragon-sickness was beginning to affect Thorin greatly.  “You’re after the Arkenstone.  What if he doesn’t make it out alive?”

   “I will not risk this quest for a _burglar,”_ spat Thorin.

 _“Bilbo,”_ Balin corrected.  “His name is Bilbo.”

   Thorin was silent.  Then, “I do not trust him.”

   “What?” asked Balin, aghast.  “He saved your life, Thorin!”

   “Ever since we began to climb the Mountain, he’s been…different.  Changed.  Almost as if his memory of our times together have been erased from his mind.”

   “I didn’t notice any change,” interrupted Nori.  “He seemed the same.  Maybe a little daunted at the task of climbing the Mountain, but otherwise…”

   Ori looked uncertain.  “I don’t know…he seemed a bit overly polite and confused…”

   “All hobbits are, compared to our kind,” replied Dwalin.  “There is nothing wrong with Master Baggins.”

   Suddenly another _crash_ resounded from within the halls of Erebor.  All the dwarves looked at the doorway fearfully as a faint echo of the dragon’s roar travelled through the halls.  “Now what, Thorin?” Balin turned to his king, who stared distrustfully back at him.  “What will you do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things might get a little rocky from here. How will Thorin and the other dwarves react? Will Sherlock even be able to pull off a dragon act? Geez...


	6. Notes from the Author

Okay! I'm not dead, I promise! I haven't been on here in a while, but there is a perfectly plausible reason for that. I've started college, so schoolwork has been taking up most of my time. I've also been working on an original piece that is going to be a LOT bigger than any of my stories here. I also have a little writer's block on most of my unfinished fics, and I hope that I can get back on writing them soon. So even if it takes a few years and I don't mark them as discontinued, I WILL finish them--count on it.


	7. Playing Along

     “I think the best thing we can do now, Sherlock,” stated John, “is to play along.”

     “ **Play along?”** Sherlock still sounded bored. **“We've been drugged, John.** **There's nothing left to do but wait.”**

     “That may be, but there's no way this can't all be a hallucination, can it?” asked John. “It seems very real.” He picked up a coin. It felt smooth and cool in his hand, and there was an image of a bearded man stamped on one side and a pickaxe on the other. Judging by its weight, John could conclude that it was indeed real gold. “Look at that. What kind of drug could go into this much detail?”

     “ **There are** _ **many**_ **drugs that go into detail when it comes to the type of hallucination they are made to produce, especially if they're custom made,”** Sherlock replied. **“You wouldn't know; I doubt they use them in hospitals or on a battlefield.”**

     “Come off it,” John snapped irritably. “I met some people who sent me in here to look for something—a white jewel of some kind. I'd like to see what they want it for. Maybe if we play this through to the end, we might wake up.”

     “ **What good would that do?”**

     “It's better than nothing, that's for sure,” John said. “So, do you think you can help me look?”

     After a few minutes, however, John regretted asking him. It was hard enough trying to navigate uneven ground with his huge feet, but doing that with a huge dragon doing the exact same thing next to him was nearly impossible; he was dodging bits of coins and jewelry instead of looking around. “We'll never find it at this rate,” John yelled, more than a little out of breath.

     “ **I doubt we'll have time to,”** said Sherlock. **“There's another one coming in.”**

     “What?” asked John. “Coming in? Which one?”

     “ **Judging by his gait, he's broad-shouldered and muscular.** **Wearing clothes made from metal and furs…carrying some kind of longsword.”**

     “Thorin,” John whispered. “He's going to come down here expecting to see a vicious dragon…you're going to have to act it out.”

     Sherlock looked at him incredulously. **“You can't possibly be serious.”**

     “Oh come on,” John argued. “Didn't you and Mycroft play pretend when you were younger?”

     “ **He never wa** **nted** **to,”** Sherlock replied.

     “Just do your best,” John said. “I'll keep him distracted.” He ran up the stairs, trying to create a scenario in his head that would convince the dwarf of his predicament. Maybe…I tried to find the Arkenstone, but the dragon woke up and now I'm running for my life, thought John. Yes, that's good.

     Soon, John located Thorin. He was standing on the same staircase as John was, and he was staring out at the vast enormity of treasure. John ran towards him and he turned around.

     “You're alive,” Thorin stated gruffly.

     “Not for much longer!” yelled John, panting. He tried his best to sound terrified, and only hoped that Sherlock would play his part.

     “Did you find the Arkenstone?”

     “The dragon's comi—!”

     “The Arkenstone,” Thorin repeated, staring deep into John's eyes. “Did you find it?”

     Something about him looked…off. Gone was the man that John had traveled with for his short time. Gone was his relief and happiness for being back at home. There wasn't even a trace of fear in his eyes; there was only hunger, distrust, and greed.

     John paused, trying to figure out what he should do. Thorin looked a bit like a madman at the moment. For a full ten seconds he stared at Thorin then simply said “No—we have to get out” and tried to walk past him, but the dwarf blocked the way with his sword, never taking his eyes off of John for a second.

     “Thorin?” John tried to back away, but Thorin only aimed his sword at John and began to walk forward so the tip of his sword rested inches from John's chest. “Thorin!” he exclaimed, noticing that they were right in Sherlock's line of vision.

     For the first time Thorin took notice of Sherlock. His expression changed to one of realization and shock. He opened his mouth to speak, but was soon joined by the rest of the company. They ran in, screaming battle cries and wielding their weapons, but soon stopped short when they realized how huge the dragon was. For a moment everyone was silent. Sherlock stared at the line of dwarves, obviously unimpressed with their attempted show of bravery. With something that John took to be a sigh, Sherlock started forward, his teeth bared in a terrifying roar.

     Most of the dwarves—especially the younger-looking ones—replied with exclamations of fear, but only stayed rooted to the spot, their weapons shaking in their hands. Thorin was the only one that barely looked ruffled.

     “COME ON!” yelled Dwalin, jumping into the gold coins at the bottom of the stairs. The dwarves almost clambered over themselves to follow, and John found himself being dragged with them.

     “Wai—!” John tried to yell, but his arm had been caught in Balin's surprisingly strong grip.

     “Come on, Bilbo!” he shouted.

 _No!_ thought John frantically. _Wait a sec…!_

     “Split up!” ordered Thorin, and the dwarves immediately split into groups of two or three and ran in different directions. John was pulled along with Balin and Thorin.

 _How are we going to figure this out now?_ John thought in despair. The act had backfired; it was only supposed to scare Thorin away—but the other dwarves had gone and ruined everything.

_What in bloody hell are we going to do_ _**now?** _


End file.
